Definitely Guilt (or The Reason to Mend a 1940s Sorrento Music Box)
by Thefirstfewchapters
Summary: Red mends the music box and tries hard not to think about his reasons for doing so. And fails.


**My first Blacklist fanfiction so please be kind. I haven't written anything for a number of years, but my brain needed a challenge. Lacking any really original ideas I decided to start with a scene from the show. Everything then got a little bit out of control. I honestly don't know what to think about what I eventually ended up with. **

**It is nearly finished but is quite long so I decided to post the first half. **

**I do not own The Blacklist. Although, from reading my fic, you might just get an inkling that I wish Red was mine. **

**Unbeta'd. Any and all mistakes are mine alone. I apologise for any British-isms that may slip through. **

**Definitely Guilt (or The Reason To Mend A 1940s Sorrento Music Box)**

**Part One **

They lay before him in a jumble . . . the disassembled pieces of a broken music box that needed careful attention and restoration.

He felt his mouth twist at the corners as he contemplated the small, thin screws; smaller, fragile pins; larger, heavier bolts; and the assorted mixture of tumbler wheels, cogs and ratchets. Then he sorted and arranged them all with great care and consideration. Methodically. As he dealt with all things.

After he had finished sorting them, he sat and stared at them for a long time, while he decided how to approach the campaign ahead. It was a job that couldn't be rushed and yet, he knew, it was a job that couldn't take forever. Because things were in motion and proceeding quite quickly. And he had to be sure that when he needed the music box to be ready . . . it would be ready.

He wasn't very willing to begin analysing too closely his reasons for repairing the box. Wasn't truly sure what he would find if he scratched beyond the surface of the obvious motive, which was that he knew Lizzie was going to need support and assistance to cope with all that was happening with Tom. And that he thought the music box could be used to help her.

He sighed. And unconsciously chewed the inside of his mouth.

He wasn't sure how to deal with the 'Tom Situation' in a manner that didn't somehow seem condescending or frivolous. Because, God knows, he could do both of those responses extremely well. And had, in fact, shown that side of his nature to her on more than one occasion since they first met.

But now, as things were developing, it was incredibly important to him that she did not see his response to what was brewing in that way.

He had a deep suspicion that she judged his attitude to her troubled marriage as a rather gloating, I-told-you-so one. Not without foundation, he had to admit.

But he was slowly finding, within himself, a desire to show . . . what?

To be honest, exactly what he did feel he found rather confusingly open to debate.

If asked, he would say it was guilt. With a great big capital 'G'.

Definitely guilt.

He had, after all, been so instrumental in turning her life upside down.

Demanding to 'Speak Only With Elizabeth Keen,' when making his oh-so dramatic entrance onto the stage of her life.

Getting the attention _he_ needed.

He grimaced as he thought back to the early days of his relationship with her. It had all started as something akin to a game, plotted out like a tournament level chess match. And he almost winced at the smug, self-satisfied approach he had taken back then. How she had refrained from giving him a good slap round the face he wasn't at all sure.

Probably because Sam had brought her up to be polite and well-mannered: even to arrogant, conceited criminals who showed up out of the blue and steamrollered into your life without any sort of advance invitation or adequate explanation.

But the emotional fall out had been beyond anything he'd expected. For her. And, more and more, for him.

Theorising about situations was all well and good. And he had. Before it all started. But, unfortunately, quite quickly, once things were in motion, evolving and twisting before his eyes, he had begun to realise that she did not equate to anyone he had been associating with for the past twenty years. And that she might not cope or react to events in quite the way that he had anticipated.

So much for all his advance planning.

He looked at the pieces of mechanism assembled like a regiment of metal on the table. Ordered. Sorted. Ready to be mended so that they could then be fitted together and accomplish the task he required of them.

Unfortunately, other things . . . people . . . were less . . . systematic. Less logical. Less chess piece. More . . . he grimaced once more to himself . . . human.

Once you were actually face-to-face with people you had been able to do little but speculate about for a very long time, suddenly everything changed. When you looked into their eyes and saw the bewilderment, the anguish, the pain . . . suddenly . . . it wasn't just your own personal redemption project anymore. Suddenly, it was far more than that. It was far more real and people were not quite the puppets you had imagined them to be.

Suddenly, they started getting guns pointed at them by Chinese criminals in underground bunkers, they started getting kidnapped by sociopaths who flushed human remains down the plug hole for fun, and they had guns pointed at their heads by hired mercenaries who wouldn't think twice about pulling the trigger if they didn't get what they wanted.

And, suddenly, _he_ found himself unconsciously moving across to block Wujing's aim.

Of course, he did that because his plans depended on her.

That's all.

Selfishness. That's all it had been.

But then, he had to track her down, and find her, in the Stewmaker's cabin . . .

He could remember, so clearly, as if it happened just moments ago, the relief that had surged through him as if he had been struck by lightning. When he found her.

And he had looked up into her dazed eyes as she sat helpless but, thankfully, still alive, in the wheelchair.

Had that been selfishness too?

Because it meant that he was still able to continue with his plans.

Or had it been something else?

What about 'Coming out of the box for her. Red Reddington putting someone else's life ahead of his own.' He could still hear Garrick's caustic, near-disbelief.

And, indeed, could still feel the desperation that gripped him like a vice when he had thought she would be executed in front of his eyes.

Was that still selfishness?

Or something else?

Was it his debt to Sam?

Was it responsibility?

Guilt?

What?

His head twitched from side to side as he tried to shake the ideas away. Thoughts like those were an annoyance. They really needed to be swatted and squashed like the irritating insect-like pests they were. He had no need of them.

He really needed to concentrate on the here and now, not wallow in the memory of past events.

He picked up a cog and turned it over in his hand to try and distract himself from his thoughts. He examined it for flaws and imperfections, considering the work that he needed to do to repair the piece. But all he found that happened was that it made him think all the more about the human cogs caught up in his own real life machinations.

And that one cog in particular.

He shook his head again, but it wouldn't clear. This was becoming a dangerously familiar theme. He replaced the metal cog carefully alongside its fellow pieces.

And chewed the inside of his cheek as he found himself unable to stop thinking about that one particular . . . distracting . . . human cog.

Over the last few months, he had tried to explain things to her as far as he was able, but there was so much that was unsaid or avoided, or disguised in half-truths because circumstances did not permit that he could say any more. Which created a barrier between them. He had tried to show that her pain was not something that was meaningless to him. But he wasn't sure she recognised how . . . increasingly . . . true that was.

Which was understandable.

And how could he really show how he felt? When, if truth be told, _he_ wasn't really sure how he felt any more?

He had felt a shifting in her attitude towards him since the Anslo Garrick incident, but, recently, as the situation with Tom wore her down more and more, he felt that she was forgetting what he had done that day.

Red rubbed his hands on a rag. His eyes flitting from one piece to another as he checked their layout once more; assessing them each in turn for the place they would take in the machine when it was finally reassembled.

Somehow, he needed to show her that he was capable of displaying a genuine, thoughtful understanding of another person's pain and suffering without resorting to a smug, one line, dismissive comment. He wasn't sure why that had become so important to him. But it had.

To help her in some sort of constructive, useful manner.

To show a modicum of responsibility for all the turmoil that he had caused.

Perhaps lance a little of the guilt he felt.

Show he . . . cared.

About how things were.

About her.

His mouth twisted as he thought that word through.

Cared.

A word that covered a multitude of sins. So, a very safe word to use.

Would she grasp just a fraction of that word if she came to see how much time and attention he put into repairing the music box? Wasn't it supposed to be true that actions spoke louder and so on and so forth? Maybe he wouldn't have to say anything to explain himself because his actions would speak the words he couldn't?

He wasn't usually a man lacking a word or two when the opportunity arose to speak. But this . . . with Lizzie . . . was, somehow, increasingly, a challenge to even his verbosity.

He blinked a few times, and once again decided that analysing why he couldn't speak the right words was not perhaps the wisest thing.

He was _sure_ it was guilt that weighed him down the most.

He sighed.

Definitely guilt.

And he really needed to avoid any more introspection.

So, instead, he set about cleaning the pieces. With gentle concentration. Because they were delicate and precious. Not delicate and precious because they had cost a great deal of money . . . although, indeed, they had . . but because of what he hoped they would be able to achieve when they were finally able to work again.

Lost in a blurred and seemingly unavoidable cascade of thoughts about music boxes and Lizzie and Tom and Sam and guilt and regret and . . . other emotions . . . he suddenly sensed Dembe's statuesque presence in the corner of the room. Solitary. Watchful.

Red coughed. Embarrassed to have been caught somewhat off guard. 'Yes?'

'You are seeking to help mend some things, Raymond? By mending this . . . box?'

Sometimes the man was all too startlingly direct!

Red huffed a little but then reluctantly admitted, 'Hopefully. Who knows. I'm not sure it will completely mend . . . things, as you so euphemistically refer to events.' He sighed, and tilted his head as he looked across the room. 'However, . . . I hope it may prove to be a start.'

'A start?'

'Yes. Begin to help Agent Keen overcome some . . . difficulties.' Now who was being euphemistic?

Dembe continued to watch.

Red narrowed his eyes. 'What?'

'I am curious about the connection between this box and Agent Keen.'

'Long story.' He hadn't meant to sound so abrupt, and by way of a swift apology added, 'And it's good to have a project. You really should cultivate a hobby, Dembe.'

There was a stretch of silence.

'Painting?' Reddington smiled as he suggested it. 'Interior design, perhaps?'

Dembe's silence spoke volumes.

'Ah, well. It was just a thought.'

He looked back down at the table, and picked up one of the most damaged pieces, holding it thoughtfully between grease-smeared fingers.

'This reminds me of when I was a boy, you know? Meccano sets and building model aircraft. It all required such . . . time. Precision . . . I would spend hours carefully putting all the pieces together. It was a such a wonderful hobby . . .' His voice drifted into nothingness as he contemplated the metal he held, pursing his lips in concentration. But it was clear to anyone who cared to observe, that he was no longer looking at what was there in his hand. But was, in fact, miles . . . or even years . . . away. Somewhere. Only Raymond Reddington could see.

And Dembe, ever tactful, held his silence and quietly slipped away.

Red sighed. There had been times recently when he had been drawn to thoughts of his childhood. A time when everything had seemed so fresh and clean and . . . joyfully full of promise. Sometimes, the contrast between that youthful, innocent time and the mire of his adult life was almost more than he could take.

His eyes flickered and stretched wide, before blinking hard as he drew himself back from the past. Which wasn't easy. He found, increasingly, there were moments when he wanted so much to turn back time. Set his life into rewind and become a boy again. A boy who had no knowledge of the bitterness to come and the dark road he would walk as a man. A boy for whom getting lost in the delicate intricacies of building a model aircraft was the absolute highlight of the day; a time when he could take simple joy in the completion of a project that had taken weeks of careful and loving attention.

His projects these days were usually of a far deadlier nature.

But this . . .

The music box.

Was a return to those simpler days. To those quieter, more reflective projects.

Was actually a gentle, calming past-time. And he had a sense that he would come to enjoy it for more than just the thoughts of the intended final purpose. In the same way that he enjoyed his games of solitary chess, this, too, would give him time to immerse himself in something that wasn't sinister or criminal or traitorous.

He wasn't Raymond Reddington the despised, dishonoured felon, he was simply a man absorbed in something from which he took a soul-soothing pleasure. Which he then intended to give to someone he cared for very much.

There was that word again. Cared.

Someone he felt a deep responsibility for.

Perhaps that was a better choice of words?

After all, when he had first met her, there had been an innocence about her, a freshness and cleanness that had surprised him. It had surrounded her with an aura undisturbed by the work she was involved in.

But it was a freshness and cleanness which had been steadily eroded in the weeks and months since.

Because of her connection to him.

And he hadn't considered that he would come to feel so responsible . . . to . . . care . . . quite so much as all that sparkle and bloom was tarnished and polluted.

The women he had regularly associated with, like Madeline Pratt . . . there was a good example . . . who had come to be the norm for him during the last twenty years were selfish. Egotistical. Dishonest. Career orientated. Looking to benefit from their association with him in some way. So, he had somehow come to expect Lizzie to be like that. Happy to be made famous within her profession through her connection with him. And to not really care how that happened.

Except . . .

She wasn't.

And he should have known she wouldn't be like that, because she was Sam's little girl.

But, until he met her, he had expectations smeared by the women with whom he had spent the last two decades.

Therefore, he had been unprepared.

Caught off guard.

So, now, he felt responsible and desperate to help repair some of the damage.

Which meant that what he felt had to be guilt.

Definitely guilt.

She had raised an eyebrow when she called this evening and caught him with the restoration paraphernalia scattered across his work bench.

Truthfully, it was hardly surprising. Tinkering around with gears, sprockets and cogwheels was most definitely not his normal activity when she stopped by, but he had been just a _tiny_ bit put out by her comment about part of it being the timing mechanism for an explosive device. That had really been just a little hurtfully unnecessary, if you asked him. Even if he had thought that she was probably half-joking. Did she _really _think that he would stoop so low as to build _his own_ explosive devices, for heaven's sake?

He had plenty of contacts who could be paid to do that for him should he so require.

Still, she had taken his information about Ivan with reasonably good grace.

Despite perhaps being a little peeved that he was clearly using the FBI to settle his own private scores. Again. This time with a mysterious Russian computer hacker who had stolen from his supposedly secure bank account.

Red smiled as he recalled her response to his little background story about his connection to Ivan; he really needed to stop embellishing when he didn't need to. She wasn't Madeline Pratt and he needed to remember that when he decided to go off on one of his little rambling asides. Madeline would have smiled and enjoyed the joke and said he got exactly what he deserved. And probably have asked for Ivan's contact details so she could compare notes on how best to fleece international criminals of their ill-gotten gains.

Lizzie . . . had been somewhat less impressed.

'She was not impressed with your project?'

Sometimes he really thought Dembe had some sort of unnerving psychic connection with the inside of his head!

Frowning at his bodyguard he tried very hard to impose a proper sense of employer-employee protocol.

And failed.

Dembe just stood, impervious. Waiting.

Red sighed. It appeared any authority he had with anyone this evening was sadly lacking.

'Apparently, at present, Agent Keen has other things to occupy her. So, no, she was not very impressed. In fairness, I can't say I blame her entirely at this point. In my experience, mechanical remnants and repairs are not, on the whole, particularly enticing to the feminine mind.

'Although, in my younger days, sometime around ninth grade, I do believe, a lovely young girl moved in next door.' Red looked up at Dembe and smiled. '_She_ showed a _particularly_ detailed interest in my mechanical engineering projects, as I recall. I had moved on from model building by then, and was restoring an automobile of some dubious heritage or other in a barn. A lovely, quiet, lonely barn.' His smile grew lascivious. 'She was _most_ interested in learning about engines and drive shafts and . . . other activities. Michelle Steffenberg was her name. A delightfully flexible and energetic girl . . . ' He looked up.

Dembe was merely looking at him with an bland expression.

'Sometimes,' Red grumbled, 'I really don't know why I care to share.

. *****

She had had quite an opportunity to see him working on the music box tonight. But he was sure she had been far too distracted by his revelation that he had known Ivan's whereabouts the whole time to have paid his work much attention.

Red wasn't sure if he was concerned about that or not. In fact, he had found her presence a little off-putting as he was trying to concentrate on fitting together a quite intricate set of pieces. Still, he had been quite pleased with his rather theatrical flick of the spindle to send it spinning around after announcing that they needed to take a field trip. She, on the other hand, hadn't appeared to even notice; instead, it was her mind that was clearly spinning with what he had withheld and what he had just revealed.

Red sighed. His inherent desire to show off was not always such a good idea. Lizzie hadn't been pleased at all that he had been keeping her team in the dark about where Ivan was, and clearly thought he had been indulging in a little one-upmanship on the FBI. Which, well, _truthfully_ . . . he had been doing. He really, _really _needed to stop doing that. It wasn't helping his cause with Lizzie. Even if it _was _fun.

He could just imagine Donald's reaction when he found out.

He flicked the second spindle he had finished that evening and watched as the light ricocheted off it in spears of gold. And wondered precisely what 'cause with Lizzie' he was thinking about.

He was, after all, engaged in a project that would, he hoped, merely help her deal with the pain that Tom was going to inflict sometime soon. It would remind her of Sam and the protection and love he had once offered to her. And show her that he, Red, understood her pain and had thoughtfully tried to find a way to help her cope.

That was . . . caring. Wasn't it?

Showing a responsibility for someone.

It was a project that would give her a connection to the past that Red had ripped from her in a hospital room.

He grimaced.

He owed it to Lizzie, and to Sam, to be there when she needed him. Which she was going to . . . soon.

Just the mere thought of Sam was enough to make him pause and swallow hard.

Shadowed echoes of the desperate sounds of the last moments of his friend's life disturbed the previously peaceful resonance of the room.

He would never shed the guilt of that. No matter how he justified what he had done. It would remain with him forever like a disease lying dormant in his bloodstream.

He had robbed Lizzie of her father.

Was he allowed to . . . care . . . for her after that?

When just listening to her even mention Sam's name dragged across his conscience like a ragged shard of glass.

He had a sense that his personal pot boiler of swirling emotions was getting a little close to overflowing. No matter how he tried to suppress it.

Which was unsettling.

And dangerous.

Taking a steadying, deep breath, he tried to get back to the task in hand.

At least all this business with Ivan appeared to be distracting Lizzie from events on the home front, which was a good thing. She hadn't seemed nearly so fraught this evening. Except with him. Which was also a means to distract her from The Tom Thing

'Is it working yet?'

Honestly! Dembe's ability to silently appear in a room was . . . unnerving. Even if it was part of the reason he was so good at his job and partly why Red valued him so highly.

'In what sense do you mean 'working'? It _is_ coming together quite nicely, I have to say.' He found himself looking down proudly at the wood which he had polished to within an inch of its life. And the gleaming metal mechanism that was beginning to show a passing resemblance to what the inside of a music box ought to look like.

Still, he had to admit, 'If you mean: is it working as in finished-and-operating-as-it-was-intended-to? Then, no, it isn't. Not quite.' He paused. 'Therefore, I suppose, if you mean: is it working as in is-it-now-assisting-Agent-Keen-with-her-emotional . . . issues? Then, well, . . . no, it isn't. We haven't quite reached that point yet.'

'Ah. So, it is not working at all then?'

Red gave Dembe what he hoped was a severe glare. 'At this moment in time? _Actually_ working? No. Not as such. But it will.'

He became aware that Dembe was eyeing the array of pieces on the work bench somewhat dubiously.

'Trust me. If I can strip down a Colt .45 1911 and reassemble it in less than two minutes, I can put this back together again in proper working order.'

Silence.

Red raised an eyebrow in his bodyguard's direction. 'Yes?'

'This would appear to be taking you somewhat longer than two minutes.'

'Dembe . . . I really will have to fire you if you don't go and find a hobby and get out of my . . .'

He could sense the big man's smirk from across the room.

'I wasn't going to say hair. I was going to say space.'

He looked up and dared Dembe to argue. But he had gone already, leaving behind only a deep, resonant chuckle in the place where he had been.

After a moment, Red smiled to himself and settled back to work.

Once again, she had been and gone, casting barely a cursory eye over what he was doing, because this time she was far too concerned with finding out more about 'Jolene Parker'. He had managed to slip past her questions without lying, but he had frustrated and angered her. Again.

She was losing patience with his side-steps and he wasn't sure how much longer she would keep going without grasping hold of the nearest heavy object and taking out her considerable annoyance and frustration by beating him over the head with it. And, in truth, he wouldn't blame her. The problem was that he had very little to tell her that she didn't already know.

So, off she'd stormed. Past a quietly watching Dembe.

He fitted another cog together and tried to settle his thoughts. Tilting his head unconsciously as he did so.

'What do you think?' he asked, seeking a glimmer of approval, because he was nothing if not a little proud and vain.

There was a considered silence.

'It would appear that you have found some pieces that fit together correctly,' Dembe dead-panned.

'Yes. Thank you. I thought maybe you could show a _little_ more appreciation for the artistry of my extremely careful reconstruction.'

There was a pause.

Then, 'It is a very impressive thing you have achieved so far, Raymond. To rebuild this machine from the wreckage it was reduced to.' Dembe stopped and waited until his employer raised his eyebrows and looked at him questioningly.

'But?' Red drawled. 'I can hear the 'but'.'

'But, I suspect, that it is not _my _appreciation that you seek.'

Red's eyes narrowed dangerously. And his mouth pinched slightly. Just momentarily tension slipped into the room and froze the atmosphere between the two men.

Then, like smoke cleared by a fresh draught from a newly opened window, it was gone, as he gave his friend a flicker of a half-smile that pulled at one side of his mouth for a fraction of a second.

'Ah,' he murmured quietly.

Their eyes met. 'Please. Be careful, my friend.' Dembe's voice was neutral and yet somehow expressed many years' worth of watchfulness and concern.

Red considered the machinery again. 'Always,' he murmured.

But was that true anymore?

_Really _true, anymore?

How far could he deny that he was letting his guard down? Just a fraction.

That things were not going as he had expected?

That _she_ was starting to . . . what?

Worry him?

Cause him _to _worry?

Affect him?

Cause him to lose his objectivity?

Because of the whole situation with Tom. And how hurt and embittered it had made her.

When he had thought about things objectively from afar, planned, plotted and manoeuvred, before he'd actually _met_ her, Elizabeth Keen had not been . . . Lizzie.

And . . . now . . . she was.

And, somehow, gradually, it had come to make a world of difference.

The flippancy he had employed in the early days had rapidly come to feel wrong when talking to her.

He could use it to his heart's delight when dealing with Cooper, Ressler, Malik and the others. But, somehow, he had found himself losing that edge with her. Had discovered that he wanted her to see him as less of a face on a wanted poster and more as an actual . . . person.

Sitting there with the mechanism in his hands, sensing Dembe's concern, he began truly to realise the limitless depth of the sinking sand beneath his feet.

For twenty odd years, emotion hadn't entered into anything in his life. He hadn't let it. He was used to being able to measure everything. It had all been precise and practical and pigeon-holed. Quantifiable and calculated and cold.

And . . . now . . . this . . .

With . . . her . . .

Wasn't. Any. Of. Those. Things.

It was . . .

What?

He certainly needed to accept the fact that his increasing connection to Lizzie could leave him exposed in a way that he hadn't been his entire criminal career. He was beginning to sail in dangerously uncharted waters and had to realise he wasn't as assured in his own world and as secure behind his own defences as he had thought he was.

Elizabeth Keen . . . Lizzie . . . was getting under his skin.

And Dembe, quietly observant as he was, had probably noticed long before Red had noticed it himself. And was probably right to be concerned.

Because tonight, when she had scathingly said, 'Have fun with your project,' and then left, he had felt . . .

Hurt?

Misunderstood?

Guilty?

He was very sure it was one, or all, of those. But, maybe, there was a hint of something else, too.

She was hurting. There had been tears in her eyes and that caused him . . . pain.

_He _had caused her to be upset because he couldn't do anything but smudge the truth and hide behind a smokescreen that left her angry, bitter and frustrated. And, therefore, he also felt angry, bitter and frustrated. At himself. And guilty. And responsible.

He was really getting in too deep.

He became aware that Dembe hadn't left the room. That he was just standing. Watching. With those large, quietly knowing eyes of his.

'This music box will help her, Dembe. _I _need to help her. I feel . . . responsible.' his mouth quirked as he paused, before he bit his lip and shook his head. He looked up. 'How can that be?'

Dembe said nothing for a long time.

Then, gently, he began, 'Because . . .'

There was a pause, as if the thoughtful, rarely spoken man was considering his words with the greatest care: as if he feared the minefield he might need to navigate with his next sentence. 'I think, it is not your head that totally rules you now, Raymond. I believe it is possible that it is your heart that tries to lead the way.'

The words were spoken without judgment or, indeed, inflection of any kind. They were just presented as a straightforward statement.

Red swallowed hard. And considered.

Looked down at the mechanism laid on the table before him.

Was Dembe right?

Was this evidence that he . . . maybe . . . still had a heart?

Somehow, he didn't dare look up and catch his bodyguard's eye.

Did he need reassess the protection around Fortress Reddington? To rebuild barriers and defences that had stood him in good stead for so long?

He touched the pieces of the music box. He had to admit, she brought out something in him that he had thought long dead, crushed beneath the grimy heel of the life he had led for the last twenty years.

Because . . .

He believed that there was no one else to protect and look out for her now.

Because Sam was gone.

Because of him.

And the guilt he felt about that was surely pushing him to want to do all that Sam would have done had he still been here.

But guilt left him vulnerable in a way that objectivity did not. Neutrality had held him in good stead for longer than he cared to remember, because he could close off any emotional involvement and shut the door on any overt connection with anyone. Dembe, Mr. Kaplan, people like that, knew where they stood: if there was a threat they knew he would move Heaven and Earth to save them, but, in the final balance, if that wasn't possible, they understood the risks and accepted the possible consequences of the life they all led together.

For a long moment he paused, as a recollection of Luli's desperate face, streaked with her terrified tears, caught him unawares; her eyes pleading with him to save her as her last few seconds in this world ticked away; before Garrick had . . . done what he'd done.

He grimaced and swallowed. Trying to deal with the sudden sharp spear of anguish that lanced through him.

It wasn't just Sam who weighed down his conscience like links in the heaviest anchor chain.

But . . . Lizzie . . . was not immersed by choice in the bleakness that was his life. She was there as a consequence of things beyond her control. And that made his responsibility to her so, so different.

And to Sam. He owed it to Sam.

He could feel nothing but savage guilt that Sam was not here. Because maybe the cancer wouldn't have killed him as quickly as everyone thought it would, so that he could have been here to provide Lizzie with some support. Who really knew?

But, regardless of his hopeless and useless hypothesising, Sam _was not _here today. Because of Red.

Which made him guilty. As Hell.

And responsible.

For Sam. To Sam.

For Lizzie. To Lizzie.

But . . .

Obligations.

Were dangerous.

He had told Sam in the hospital, 'I can only hope to love her and protect her as you have.'

But that protection made him vulnerable.

And . . . that other word . . .

Finally, he dragged his eyes from the table. And forced himself to meet Dembe's gaze. He struggled for a long moment, trying to find a response to the look of sombre understanding on his friend's face. A look that carved open his soul. Sometimes . . . actually, in truth, nearly _all _the time . . . Dembe could say more with just a look than most of the politicians Red knew could say when letting loose with their latest lengthy campaign speeches.

'Dembe, I promise I will be careful.' He tried to smile but realised that it was a weak, half-hearted affair. He decided to attempt a humourous deflection. 'Seriously, I promise I will be careful, if you will just promise to stop staring and go and find yourself a hobby. Go and buy a Meccano set or something. Anything. Just stop being so Wise Owlish and all-seeing or whatever it is you're doing right now. It makes me uncomfortable. I _promise _to be careful. I just need to sort out this music box and make certain Agent Keen is fine.'

Dembe continued to look at him reflectively.

'It's a debt,' Red insisted. 'To an old friend. That's all. A responsibility.'

Better not mention the guilt, he decided. That was probably a step too far. Too honest.

There was a long, long pause before Dembe nodded slowly as if at the conclusion of some silent internal debate and then, quietly, he turned and left the room.

Leaving Red alone with his turmoil of thoughts.

He really, _really _needed to get his bodyguard a hobby.

His head was starting to ache.

So many words.

So much emotion.

Which all needed suppressing. Stamping on. Blocking out.

Sam. Responsibility. Tom. Guilt. Lizzie. Protection.

Head. Heart. Cogs. Machines. Music.

He definitely needed to get a grip on things or he was going to be no use to anyone.

Things were slipping dangerously out of his control.

All those distracting words spinning round in his mind.

And the one word he kept avoiding.


End file.
